


A Study In Desperation

by madamecrimson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamecrimson/pseuds/madamecrimson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A desperate post-case Sherlock has John discovering new things about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Desperation

A post-case Sherlock was always jittery with energy. As each detail was recalled theatrically, his long fingers would aid in his explanations. John had grown rather fond of this, unable to keep himself from smiling as he watched his flatmate bounce around with enthusiasm.

Today was slightly different, however.

As Sherlock recounted the case to John, pointing out the significance of this and the importance of that, his voice was somewhat strained. What was normally a long litany of words was now punctuated by longer pauses. Fingers normally flying through the air were now curled into fists against his thighs. Legs that were normally still were bouncing in an uneven rhythm as he spoke. While John was not a brilliant detective, the changes were obvious enough for him to notice.

"You okay?" John asked Sherlock, watching as the bouncing appeared to increase.

"Of course," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, though the pressing together of his thighs betrayed him. "I’ve just solved a case!"

"And yet you’re bouncing around like a child who needs the loo," John teased, his lips curving up into a smirk.

Sherlock’s frenzy stilled for a mere second, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink before he addressed John once more.

"Don’t be absurd. How can anyone possibly be expected to hold still for an entire cab ride?"

"Most people over the age of five seem to manage quite nicely," John responded. His eyes narrowed as he peered at Sherlock more closely.

Sherlock’s hands had drifted in between his thighs, the corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth. The flush on his cheeks had deepened to a dark red.

"You do need a wee," John whispered lowly.

"And yet you’re always criticizing me for speaking too much about personal things," Sherlock accused, looking away from John.

"Sherlock…I only want to help," John told him quietly. He had begun to feel an odd warmth in his lower stomach. His eyes were drawn to Sherlock’s colored cheeks, his worried lower lip, and the squirming of the normally well-put together detective. He had never seen Sherlock appear out of control like this before. Sherlock sneered at John’s suggestion.

"Don’t be an imbecile. There isn’t anything to be done and we’re nearly home. I suppose you find this quite humorous?"

"Not at all," John replied, trying to stifle a smile while simultaneous attempting to ignore the feeling in his stomach.

"Oh I doubt you’d be so smug were our situations reversed. No, you’d have your mouth set in a thin line, face stoic, ever the soldier. You wouldn’t bounce about, no, much too dignified for that. In fact, you’d probably prefer to wet yourself before allowing that stone facade of yours to—damn it."

Sherlock wedged his hands firmly between his thighs, crossing his legs. John could feel his heart beating faster as he watched Sherlock twist in his seat. He felt entirely unable to tear his eyes from the desperation that graced Sherlock’s features; the doubled-over posture, the shifting about, the soft, panted breaths…John mentally shook the thought away.

"We’re nearly home," he comforted. "Won’t be long now."

"Don’t—know that I can wait that long," Sherlock ground out, a soft whimper escaping him as he clamped his hands down more firmly between his legs.

John entirely ignored the fact that he was rapidly growing hard.

The cab jolted forward as it pulled up to 221B, causing curses to spill from Sherlock’s bite-swollen lips. John paid the cabbie as Sherlock hobbled out of the cab and up to the steps. John soon followed behind Sherlock, watching as Sherlock frantically attempted to retrieve his key from his pocket.

Sherlock suddenly froze where he stood.

John was about to ask if he was alright when he heard the tell-tale signs of liquid splashing against pavement. He felt himself dripping slightly into his trousers in quite another sense and was rather thankful for the darkness of the material. He expected at least some sort of jibe from Sherlock, or perhaps a stern demand to never speak of this again. However, all John saw was Sherlock’s shoulder’s slump in defeat.

"Here, let’s get inside," John said softly, pulling out his key and opening the door.

He lightly pushed Sherlock inside, having to urge him up the stairs. Sherlock’s curls concealed the look of humiliation on his face, absolutely silent as the two men made their way up to 221B. Sherlock didn’t spare John a glance as he hurried to his room.

John stood in the living room, keys still cupped in his hands as he stared at the closed door to Sherlock’s room. He remained like that for a few moments before heading up to his own room. His fingers fiddled with the keys as he locked the door and eased himself down onto the bed.

He was so hard that it was practically painful, his cock pressing against his trousers, begging to be touched. John tried to assure himself that this was merely post-case adrenaline, the rush and excitement. Or perhaps, he had been dragged along on one case too many and hadn’t had the chance to take care of what was proving to be a very dire need.

John undid the zipper and button of his pants, settling down onto his bed. He lightly ran his thumb along the base of his cock, biting his lip as he teased at the slit. His mind was soon flooded with images of Sherlock squirming on the cab seat. John groaned deeply as his fingers wrapped around his cock.

Sherlock normally moved with such grace that it was almost unnerving. That night, John had witnessed that carefully preserved image shatter as Sherlock attempted to hold onto the control he normally kept carefully in-tact. John envisioned Sherlock’s flushed cheeks as John began to stroke himself. Sherlock was pale, and rarely ever blushed, but the sight seemed to drive John mad.

John’s other hand came round to cup his balls, lightly massaging them as he recalled the way Sherlock had shamelessly held onto himself, desperation overcoming modesty. He remembered the bounce of Sherlock’s knees, the strain of his voice, his uneven gait as he tried so hard to make it to the loo in time.

It was the mental image of the splash of urine against the concrete steps, soaked expensive dress pants, and that utter look of humiliation that sent John over the edge. He buried his moans into his pillow as he spilled over his hand in spurts.

John blinked up at the ceiling as the realization of what just happened dawned on him.

He felt incredibly guilty, incredibly dirty. He had enjoyed the humiliation and what was likely a rather unpleasant experience of his male best friend. John felt disgusted with himself, confused, and oddly aroused by the negative emotions all at the same time. He gingerly cleaned himself up with a tissue, chalking up his experience to an odd night and lack of decent sleep.


End file.
